The Pen Pal Project
by DesignerTwilight
Summary: When you turn 13, a spiral appears on your hand that tells you when you will meet the love of your life. Arthur Kirkland considers himself lucky, since he will meet his soulmate young. But when this Francophobic teen's school becomes pen pals with a school in France, Arthur is forced to converse with Francis Bonnefoy. FrUK, and minor appearances from other popular ships. *M for ED*
1. One - Lucky

**Inspired by "The Gentleman and The Hero" by Teenage Mouse, and the lacking of good FrUK Soulmate AU's.**

* * *

 _One- Lucky_

When you turn thirteen, you get an spiral on the top of your dominant hand that counts down the minutes until you meet your soulmate. It doesn't have numbers; rather, it is simply a spiral that deteriorates until it vanishes altogether. Everyone gets one, almost. Only one-percent of the population never gets a spiral, but I still consider myself lucky every day be a part of the 99% of the population.

However, about point-four-percent of the spiraled people are infected with a "glitch", as my father calls it, where two members of the same sex are mated. I have only met one couple like that in real life; my close friend, Kiku Honda, was mated with a Greek man named Heracles. Although bound by fate, much of society does not embrace it. I feel deeply for Kiku and Heracles. They've been harassed publicly for months. I feels fortunate enough to be part of the 98.6% of the population.

Despite that, though, I'm still nervous; I'm afraid that I won't be a good husband to my future wife. I know that she will be gorgeous, and perhaps a blonde. I'm rather taken with the name Francesca as well. But will she be smart? Kind? Loving? Rash? I only know she will be devoted to me. But am I ready to be a good husband? I'm only seventeen, but my spiral is now a fraction of what it used to be. I'm likely to meet her by the end of the school year.

It's dawned on me that I'm actually going to meet her soon. The love of my life. I'm considered one of the lucky ones. Some people meet their soulmate in their eighties, but most meet theirs in their mid-twenties. I get to grow with her. I can get to know her, and appreciate her.


	2. Two - Uncultured

**Warning: One-sided UsUk. It has to happen in order for Igirisu-kun to accept his true feelings. It also relates more to canon that way. Don't worry, this is NOT UsUk centric. :)**

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 ** _Some handy French:_**

Angleterre = England

Je m'appelle = my name is

Correspondant = pen pal (correspondent)

Madeleines = small French cakes

âme sœur = soulmate

génial allemand = awesome German

petit frère = little brother

Quelle agonie = what agony

père = father

Bachelier = bachelor

macaron = macaroon (almond and coconut cake)

au revoir = goodbye

* * *

 _Two- Uncultured_

I hated secondary school with a passion. I hated waking up at unholy hours and dealing with unbearably incompetent peers. Well, that isn't entirely true. My school, Henry Smith School, happened to rank amongst the best in England. My issue was that my school announced that it would take part in an initiative to "learn about different cultures". That, of course, meant that each of us was paired with a bloody frog from France, and meeting them at the end of the year. Personally, I hated the French and their self-righteous, arrogant culture. They're ranked just higher on my most despised people list than the Sealandic. Third on my list are Americans.

My English class will essentially be replaced, thrice a week, with writing letters to our pen pals. That also means more English homework for me. Joy.

After acquiring my schedule, I set off to my first class of the day. Maths. I had heard from Kiku that Mr. Jones is a character. He had unwavering, unfiltered nationalism for America, his home country. He was loud, extroverted, and very superstitious. It's also rumored that instead of holding official detentions, he brings his students to the local McDonald's. It's a claim, since students would never come forward and admit such a thing.

As soon as I entered the room, I saw Mr. Jones talking to students and giving them a blank notecard. His entire room is, sacrilegiously, the Fourth of July themed. Fireworks can be seen on every free space of wall, and his whiteboard had his name and presumably instructions written in blue and red. Above his desk was Captain America memorabilia, an American flag, and most likely the Declaration of Independence.

Classy.

The tall, tan blonde approached me. Despite my resolution, my heart skipped a beat. I found myself entranced in his blue eyes, and I stood there, transfixed for what felt like eternity. My trance was broken when Mr. Jones spoke to me, "Hey dude! Welcome! Pick any seat you want. Oh!" He scrambled with his large stack of notecards to give me one. "Here's a notecard. On the board are some instructions to follow. Oh! My name's Mr. Jones, but feel free to call me Mr. J or whatever. What's your name, bro?"

"Arthur Kirkland." I managed to keep my composure and accept his notecard graciously, still completely taken with the surprisingly gorgeous man in front of me. I noticed that both his hands were blank; he had already found his soulmate.

"Nice to meet ya, Arthur! Do you mind if I call ya Artie?" I shook my head and walked past him.

My heart sunk once I brought myself back to reality and took a seat in the front row. I needed to find my soulmate, now. There should never have been any way I was so completely beguiled by my _male_ teacher. Here's hoping I wasn't one of those strange individuals who claim that their soulmate could be either a male or female and they would be happy either way. I would only be happy if my soulmate was a female.

But if my soulmate had been Mr. Jones, he'd be a different story altogether.

The instructions on the board were simple enough. We were to write down our full names, any nicknames we preferred, our ages, and a bit on our families. They will be read out loud five minutes after the bell rang.

When it was time to begin, Mr. Jones chose me to go first. "H-hello," I stuttered, looking down at my card. "M-my name is Arthur Kirkland. I p-prefer Arthur, um, I'm seventeen years old, and I have four brothers."

"Woah, dude, that's so cool!" Mr. Jones gawked. "Like, I only have one brother. What's it like having four?"

"I-it's chaotic, to say the least." I wished nothing more than to sit down at that moment.

"Dude, we're gonna have to follow up on that later. Anyway, let's move on." And with that, the girl sitting on my right stood up. She had long, black hair with a large pink flower. "My name is Mei Xiao, but Mei is fine! I'm seventeen, and I have three brothers and a sister!"

After that, I tuned out. I could only fret over my initial attraction to Mr. Jones. No matter how much I wanted to deny it, I couldn't deny how dazzled I was by him. But, it was one incident. I'm certain Mr. Jones is _just_ that gorgeous of a man. Hell, I'm certain half the males in my class were equally as attracted to him as I was. I convinced myself that.

The ninety minutes had passed, and it was finally time to go to English. I would most likely be forced to pretend to be enthralled with the French. My teacher walked to the front of the room and said, "Good morning, class! I am Ms. Héderváry, and since this is English class, we will be working on our pen pal project! Since our French friends started classes yesterday, we already had those letters sent to our PenPal accounts. You should have received your information before class started today. Our plan for today is to get logged on to our accounts, read the letters, and compose a well thought-out response. Our homework for tonight is to read the first lesson in the text book, due tomorrow." My class groaned.

I logged on to my account, named ArthurKirland, and found one notification from a frog named Francis Bonnefoy. I, begrudgingly, opened the letter.

 _Bonjour, anglais! Je m'appelle Francis Bonnefoy. If you haven't noticed, you have been graced with moi being your correspondant. I am eighteen years old, and I was born in Paris, France. I love cooking and baking, especially madeleines. In my free time, I practice my ballet. I am told I am the best in my class. I was recently Prince Siegfried in_ Swan Lake _. I wish you could have seen me, anglais._

 _Living in France is wonderful, thank you for asking. I love walking around Paris at night. The Eiffel Tower lights up, and with the stars in the sky as a background, no camera I could ever own could ever capture its beauty. I hope to one day take my soulmate to the Eiffel Tower every night and tell them know that they possess more beauty than it could ever dream of possessing. I must wait to meet them, sadly._

 _Anyway, I have two people that I consider to be close friends. Antonio, a smooth-talking Spaniard that moved here with his,_ friend _, Lovino, and his brother, Feliciano (both are my cousins). And Gilbert, a génial allemand that he is of Prussian ancestry, came here with his brother, Ludwig, because their guardians found work in Paris. It is not fair to me that they both found their soulmates in the city of love, and I have to wait yet almost a year. Quelle agonie._

 _Oh! I almost forgot, anglais. I have a frère cadet, named Mathieu. He is in Canada visiting his mother, so I forget him easily. But growing up, he was much like my own child, and I love him so. Our père is.. Better suited to be a bachelier._

 _To conclude, anglais, I have some questions to you. What is it like, being the black sheep of Europe? How does it feel to be from a country that is infamous for its inability to cook? And what exactly do you love about French cooking? Or, is Angleterre so terrible that you do not have French cooking? Perhaps I should, when we meet, give you a macaron as a taste of proper food. Until then, anglais, au revoir!_

My blood was boiling and I haven't even met the frog yet. I can already tell this is going to be a difficult year, but I gather all my composure and wrote a reply.

 _You seem to be a very incorrigible individual. Insulting one's country before even meeting them is considered rude in many cultures. Then again, why would I expect a Frenchmen to understand etiquette?_

 _My name is Arthur Kirkland. I am seventeen, and no, I do not want anything to do with your food or even culture. I like chicken tikka masala and tea just fine, thank you very much. Grey earl, to be exact. I have recently been teaching myself how to cook, and so far, I can confidently say that my latest bowl of cereal has not caught on fire._

 _Anyway, I play football- not that stupid American sport, though. I happened to be very well appreciated by my team as well as a skilled goalkeeper. I've played football since I was eight, and ever since then, I've gained the approval of my father._

 _I have four brothers. One, Allistor, has a Scottish mother; Patrick has an Irish mother; Dylan has a Welsh mother; and then there's Peter, with whom I share a mother. However, Peter has been insisting that he's Sealandic since he's been introduced to the concept of Sealand. My older brothers Allistor, Patrick, and Dylan all live with their mothers and visit us during summers and holidays, meaning they go home soon. Lucky for me._

 _I have one person that I consider to be a good friend of mine, named Kiku. He's originally from Japan, and has been there for me since I was young. He's closer to me than all of my brothers combined. He knows almost everything about me. I say almost for a reason. Don't press, frog._

 _I've been thinking a lot about my soulmate recently. I am to meet her at the school end of the year as well. I've always imagined her to be a smart, loving blonde. She would take my breath away by just looking at her, and bring me to tears because I'm so thankful for her. I would tour London with her and spoil her because she deserves it._

 _To conclude, I have questions for you as well. What's it like, knowing your culture lacks basic manners? And how does it feel to know that your children will be even less civilized than you? And how are the women? I've heard that not only are they classy, they also are allergic to baths._

Pressing send, I sit back in my chair satisfied, and spent the rest of the time reading the lesson.


	3. Three - Brainwashed

**1\. I got reviews ahhh! Thank you so much; I didn't expect anyone to read this! xD I am going to change Canada's role in the story because I think that would make things more interesting. Therefore he's now in England. I should probably go back and edit where he is and why.**

 **2\. Also, upon researching further, I discovered that the school Arthur would technically be in would be sixth form. This will be taken into consideration should I ever rewrite this, but for the sake of continuity, bear with me. I'm American; I was naive.**

 **3\. After I publish this, I'm going to do a RENT-Hetalia crossover of "Out Tonight". It will be Spamano JS.**

* * *

 _Three- Brainwashed_

I never wanted to go home from football practice, but alas, the time always comes in which my parents expect me. Including my brothers. Dylan and Peter were relatively harmless, but since Patrick and Allistor had met their soulmates, they've become absolutely intolerable.

As soon as I walked through the door, Patrick came up to me and pat my back. "Nice o' you to join us, Artie. Is ya soulmate joinin' for dinner, or is he coming over after?" He and Allistor burster into laughter when that Scottish prick joined in.

"Don't trouble th' lad, Patty. 'E's goin' to 'ave enough troubles once 'e meets 'is soulmate."

"Oh, come off it!" I glared at them both and hurried to my room.

"'Ut's t' rush, Artie? Don't ye t' stay 'nd chat about ye soulmate?" Allistor blocked my way and smiled sadistically.

"Artie would rather hide in 'is room than talk to us. He's very unsociable. He 'ill be an extrovert."

"I won't care what _she_ will be like because _she_ will be gorgeous."

"Ye not foolin' us, Artie!" Patrick took one last dig before I dashed up to my room.

That happened every single day. They were relentless; they insisted that I would mate a man. Perhaps that's why I found Mr. Jones attractive. They've brainwashed me. They had planted thoughts into my head that aren't naturally occurring. It's as if their constant teasing had finally affected my mental state. This, certainly, was what PTSD felt like, except, the trauma is on-going. I didn't want to think another word of it.

Out of pure curiosity, I went to my laptop and went to my Spiral Calculator account. As soon as I had turned thirteen, I had created this account to track how much longer I had to wait until I met her. After scanning my spiral, the calculator was able to calculate how many minutes until I met her. Currently, 457,920 minutes. Some may consider that a long time, but considering I've been waiting for over a decade, eleven months seems like such a short amount of time.

I looked over at my backpack with disdain. It was only the first day and I had homework in nearly all my classes. Groaning, I started with English. _Lesson One: Introduction to Rhetorical Strategies._ It's apparent to me that the writers of this book _certainly_ know how to captivate the squirrel-like brains of my generation.

I ended up going to bed around midnight. When the my alarm rang at around seven, I groaned in frustration. Was my mental health a noble sacrifice for my personal hygiene? I thought not. I snoozed my alarm.

Or, so I thought.

After a lovely dream about Mr. Jones (who, oddly, had grown out his already silky hair), I jolted awake. It was eight. Class starts in less than an hour. Jumping out of my bed, I tore off my clothes and dressed in a clean, white long-sleeve button-up shirt, navy blue necktie, navy blue sweater, and navy blue slacks. On my feet, I threw on my black Barkers.

After brushing my teeth and throwing on deodorant, I grabbed my backpack and football bag and ran down the stairs. No one in this forsaken house had even thought to wake me up; everyone went about their lives and went to work and school without me. How bloody considerate. Grabbing a couple of premade scones, I rushed out the door and set on my way to school.

I arrived at school, after a nice jog, soaked in sweat and smelled faintly of body odor. Today I will have to suck it up and wear the cologne my father bought me for my seventeenth birthday. I wished vehemently that I hadn't taken out the deodorant from my bag. Wrestling with my bags as I walked, I got out the cologne and sprayed myself. I coughed and carried on.

Two minutes to spare. Mr. Jones greeted me at the door. "Hey Artie. Y'know you didn't have to spruce up for me, right?" He then gave me a high-five and I grimaced, my face heating up. My head lowered cowardly, I made my way to the front row. The instructions on the board were to take out last night's homework and turn it into the basket. Having done so, I put my head on my desk and pray that whatever is going on with me is temporary. This is excruciatingly painful.

I never thought I would ever be excited to go to my English class. It was comforting, knowing that Ms. Héderváry would accept me as one of her students without passing any judgement. "Good morning, class!" She strolled to the front of the class. "As we speak, our dear French friends are responding to our heart-felt letters." Yeah. _Heartfelt._ "First order of business is a quiz over the first lesson!" Cue stereotypical class groans, including a sigh of relief from me.

The quiz itself was twenty multiple choice questions that any year ten student could figure out. After that, she actually taught us something. Well, I found myself from time to time wondering what that frog Francis could have possibly written to me. I'd like to think he'd seen the err in his ways, and has come to me lamenting for his severe transgressions against my country. The other part of me believes that to be childish and naive. Knowing he is going to insult my country makes my blood boil.

 _That bloody frog wouldn't dare go as far as insulting the queen..!_

"Arthur?" Ms. Héderváry broke me from my trance. "What is the answer to my question?"

I jumped. "Syntax," I threw out a wild guess.

"Well, sort of…" I would brush up on the lesson at home. Probably.

Lunch couldn't come by sooner. I spotted Kiku at an empty table in the corner next to a small blonde boy that scarily reminded me of Mr. Jones, and Heracles. "Hello, Kiku, Heracles. Who's your friend?"

"Hello, I'm Matthew. What's your name?" Matthew held out his hand for me to shake. He spoke softly; the complete opposite of Mr. Jones.

Shaking his hand, I said, "Arthur. Pleasure to meet you."

"And you as well."

"Kon'nichiwa, Arthur-kun."

"Hello, Arthur." The Greek nodded curtly.

"How did you meet Kiku, Matthew?" I asked politely.

"We have the same physics class. We've bonded over our confusion with the equations," Matthew smiled sweetly. "Where did you meet Kiku?"

"We've grown up together. He's been my close friend since childhood." I smiled at Matthew, wondering if he knew about Heracles and Kiku. I then wonder how he hasn't.

"So, Heracles," Matthew turned to the brunet. "How did you meet Kiku?" The two of them tensed, and for a good reason. He didn't know.

"We met while I was lost in London. He happened to be nearby, so I asked him if he knew where the pet shop was. He then took me and we looked at cats together. It was fate." My Japanese friend shop him a worried look.

"Oh. That's cute. I sadly met my soulmate in class last year. It's been very rough." Matthew looked down sadly.

Not wanting to press, I moved on. "At least you don't have to wait nearly a bloody year."

"Well," the blonde pondered. "I do. I have to wait until graduation. If anyone figured out who my soulmate is until then, we'd be screwed."


	4. Four - Obsessed

**I didn't expect reviews ahh thank you so much ;_;**

 **To the guest who wanted to see Arthur go yandere on Mr. Jones and his girlfriend: If you want to write that using the student!England x MathTeacher!America thing I got going on, you have my full permission to write that if you need it. Except, this isn't USUK, and Mr. Jones has a mate.**

 **Wait, what the heck is up with Mr. Jones?!**

* * *

 **Handy French:**

Angleterre - England

indépendant et sophistiqué - independent and sophisticated

de l'amour - of love

formidable - wonderful

centre commercial - shopping center

oui - yes

doux-parlé - soft- spoken

gros sourcils - large, bushy (big) eyebrows

âme sœur - soulmate

* * *

 _Four - Obsessed_

Ever since Matthew told us that his soulmate could get them both into trouble, I've been wrestling with who it could be. I know for a fact that only two types of soulmates get you in trouble: teachers and same sex mates. But he made me believe it was an age issue. That his mate was much older than he was - a teacher. I only know certainly that it isn't my English teacher, as I've seen her tuft of a spiral; though, there are dozens of teachers and I haven't the faintest clue on their spirals' statuses. Once we graduate, I will ask him.

If I could only move on and stop obsessing about it.

I also toyed with the idea of his soulmate being a man. It made some sense to me; he was nervous to talk about his soulmate extensively. He's perhaps, afraid that he may accidentally slip and I, in a hate-filled rage, may tell on him and his soulmate. Or, less extreme, I would resort to calling him a "glitch", a "chooser", or even a "birth-hater".

But not only that, he mentioned his soulmate after Heracles, essentially, told Matthew about him and Kiku. To me, that must mean he brought up his story to reassure them that he isn't hateful- he's like them himself. His story intrigues me, but I'm afraid I will simply have to wait and see in about nine months.

After a painful day of waiting for Francis to write back, I checked my PenPal account, and luckily for me, a letter awaited me. My heart sank.

 _Since you embody all that I assume to be true about your people, I will now call you Angleterre. Firstly, to address your rude questions, I would like to make sure you understand that French women are indépendant et sophistiqué. They smell like roses, but since you wouldn't ever know that, you will have to take my word for it. Additionally, you say I am rude. How can I be rude, when I am from the country de l'amour? Do not worry, Angleterre. I forgive you for being as bitter as your tea._

 _Yesterday was formidable, thank you for asking. My friends and I went to the centre commercial and watched the people. One of them wore a sweater vest and I named him Arthur. I told my friends that he had a short temper, and most likely was there to find people like us to yell at. I imagine you to be like that in real life, Angleterre._

 _I have mentioned my brother Mathieu in the past, oui? I heard he is attending your school now. Do you know him, Angleterre? He is a gentleman; very doux-parlé. He also has a curl that has caused him much heartache in the past. Should you ever meet him, befriend him. He has a hard time making true friends. I worry about him being away from home._

 _Anyway, I will now tell you a bit more about myself. My favorite movie is, ironically,_ Beauty and the Beast _. Not only does it take place in the best country in the world, it also tells the tale of true love despite appearances. I imagine you with gros sourcils, and so your âme sœur will need to be an expert in non-materialistic love._

 _To conclude, Angleterre, I suggest waxing your eyebrows. Au revoir!_

This bloody git didn't know where to stop. He didn't just insult me, he insulted my country. That, I can't take lightly.

 _Who are you to degrade me, my country? You're just as pretentious as the rest of your people and you're too ignorant to realize that. For that reason, you're France to now._

 _Your insults are elementary. I'm certain my grandmother could throw better insults than you, and she's expired. You know, in my childhood, I always loved this one programme about a talking frog. I assume you're proud of your childhood fame. Additionally, last night I had the misfortune of watching a French programme, and it was utterly unbearable. I could smell the snail on their breath from my chair. I almost vomited. I imagine that to be the smell that is ingrained in your clothing._

 _As for your brother, there's a good chance I met him yesterday. He was such a sweetheart, even sitting with us at lunch. I find it hard to believe that you're related to such an innocent, pure-hearted boy when you're so… French. He was so polite and attentive that I wonder what happened to you. Oh, right. He has a different mother. It shows._

 _My day was great without any word from you. I hung out with my friends and I practiced more of my soccer. My mom even made chicken tikka masala for dinner, and it was perfect. The British can cook, you wanker. I had three servings._

 _I have a challenge for you, France. Do you think it is possible to go an entire letter without a lick of French? I don't want you to torture my eyes any more than you already have. I would prefer to not desperately claw at my eyes every time you write to me._

 _I bet you can't do it, France._

Satisfied, I pressed send. Before I knew it, it was lunchtime. I was greeted by an empty table, so I sat and waited. I again started thinking of that pretentious frog with disdain. Who died and named him king?

Before I knew it, Matthew came up to me timidly. "Hey, Arthur."

"Oh, hello, Matthew. Come have a seat." I smiled, waving him over.

"Arthur, did you get lunch yet?" My heart skipped a beat.

Forcing a smile, I told him I had a bit of a cold, and I'm not too hungary. He attempted to feel my forehead, but I was able to fend him off. "I'll be alright after a few days. Don't worry."

"Okay…" I can still tell he was worried. "You didn't get lunch yesterday either, though."

"Don't worry about me, alright?" I tried to smile through my anxiety.

Kiku and Heracles arrived shortly after an awkward pause. We greeted them, and Kiku looked like he was terrified for his life. I had a bad feeling someone found out. They sat in the corner farthest away from other tables.

Suddenly, a Russian kid named Ivan approached our table. "We have birth-haters here, da?" He flashed us the creepiest smile I've ever seen. "They must be eliminated. They do not belong here." He walked over to a trembling Kiku and opened a carton of white milk and dumped it all over his hair and threw the carton at Heracles. They just sat there, stunned. We had amassed some unwanted attention.

"That was uncalled for, Ivan!" Matthew stood up. "It doesn't matter that you don't agree with them. They have rights just like you do, you sad excuse for a human being!" Inspired to stand up for my friend, I chime in.

"Why don't you go pick on someone your own size, you bumbling brute?" I shouted at him. "They're better people than you could ever fathom! And you have the audacity to shame them for being themselves? Why don't you go and learn some couth, you uncultured swine!"

Before Ivan could swing at us, Mr. Wang and Mr. Jones came running towards us. "Hey, hey, hey!" Mr. Jones yelled. "What's going on here?"

"This prat called these two 'birth-haters' and said they 'needed to be eliminated'. He then proceeded to dump milk in Kiku's head and throw the carton at Heracles!" Matthew told Mr. Jones angrily.

Mr. Jones, for a split second, looked fearful, and then in the blink of an eye, turned to Ivan angrily. "Is that true, Ivan?"

"They are ruining the earth," was Ivan's defense.

"Come with me. We're going to have a long talk with Mr. Vargas about tolerance, dude." Grabbing his arm, Ivan was dragged away.

Everything returned to normal, except us. Heracles had taken Kiku to get cleaned up. I turned to Matthew and said incredulously, "Good job, Matthew. Had you never spoken up, I wouldn't have courage to stand up for them too."

"Can you keep a secret?" He blurted. I nodded and he sighed and moved closer to my ear. "My soulmate is a man. That's why I stood up for them." He looked away nervously.

"That's okay." If it were true, I would have told him the same thing. "If I didn't think so, I wouldn't be here right now."

"Thanks," Matthew laughed. "I'm sorry, I just had to get that off my chest. It's been my dirty little secret for a year now."

"That's alright." I had nothing else to say, so I let the topic drop. He didn't need to know that I'm now more curious than ever as to who his soulmate is.


	5. Five - Regretful

**Gahh! Who is Matthew's soulmate! It's killing both Arthur AND me! Asdfghjkl**

 **And Arthur's secrets? We will see very soon. Unless you have special senses for…** _ **Things**_ **like that. ;)**

 **Shorter than normal to compensate for the drama that ensues. Will likely produce a long chapter either tomorrow (Monay) or Tuesday.**

* * *

 _Five - Regretful_

Putting off my maths homework until the last minute did not produce good grades. I was slipping to a less-than perfect grade. It wasn't my fault, though. I just couldn't concentrate. The pangs in my stomach were too much to bear at times, and my parents were getting needlessly worried. Just because I had four plates of bangers and mash does _not_ mean I am ill. I'm a growing boy, after all. Perhaps I will have to bring food into my room from now on.

Walking up to Mr. Jones's closed door after school was very strange to me. The boisterous extrovert would never shut the door on anyone, right? Cautiously, I walked up to the door and almost opened it when I heard hushed voices.

"Don't worry, bro!" I heard Mr. Jones say to the other. "Like, nobody visits me after school. We will totally be fine. Don't worry so much."

I couldn't hear the other voice. They either didn't speak, or they were better at whispering than Mr. Jones.

After a moment, my teacher continued. "Babe, it's fine. Besides the door's locked." Another pause. "I can't wait until you graduate…"

 _Who was he speaking to?!_

Then, it clicked.

 _"Well," the blonde pondered. "I do. I have to wait until graduation. If anyone figured out who my soulmate is until then, we'd be screwed."_

" _I can't wait until you graduate…"_

Before I could slap myself silly, Mr. Jones moaned, "Matt, please, not here. Let's go somewhere more private." They stopped talking. My flight instincts kicked in. I jogged out of the building and sprinted home and into my bed where I passed out.

I forced myself awake at about 6 am. I had only English and maths homework, and if I hurried to do them, I would be done in time to shower. When the time came to shower, my mind was engulfed with obsessive thoughts about Mr. Jones and Matthew. I couldn't stop thinking about hypothetical situations in which they held hands, kissed, and more. My heart burned, and my brain began to wildly form new scenarios. At the park, in the classroom, and even in the bathroom. I turned off the heat.

Picking out the baggiest sweater, shirt, and slacks I had and putting it over my shoulders. Grabbing my bags, I set off to school.

It was an hour before school started. I found a drinking fountain and drank greedily before setting off to find Kiku. I found him and Heracles sitting in Mr. Wang's classroom. Kiku sported a poker face as the Greek showed him pictures he had taken, presumably of his cats. "Kiku?" I breathed heavily. "Can I have a word with you?" He nodded, stood up, and hurried over to catch up with me.

"Hello," I said awkwardly.

"He'ro, Arthur-kun. Is something the matter?" His blank expression cracked with empathy.

"Well," I struggled with words. "Last night I encountered a couple that was the same sex, and ever since then I haven't been able to stop thinking about them. I need your advice."

"In order to give a proper diagnosis, we need to determine why you have thoughts of them." He looked at me seriously. "If you were not my friend, I would suggest that you are strugg'ring with the idea that two people of the same sex can be bound by fate. That is not the case, so I assume you are interna'rizing their re'rationship and app'rying it to yourself. You know; re'rating the idea of two men or women to yourse'rf."

"I-I don't think I am…!" I might have been.

"That is the only exp'ranation I see app'ricable. I think you see something in them about yourse'rf that you may not have ever thought about. Perhaps you are simp'ry nervous to meet your sou'rmate."

"That's true," I admit. I was getting very uncomfortable talking to him about it, and I was regretting ever saying anything. "Thank you for your help. See you at lunch."

"You're we'rcome. Good luck." Nodding at him, I shuffled away, his advice and the events that recently transpired swirling into an overwhelming cloud in my mind.


	6. Six - Panicked

**I'm a third of the way done here (an accomplishment for my scattered brain), and I'm excited to start my next project! It's going to be fluffier and less intricate but that's okay.**

 **One day late. Blame RENT. Ahaha...**

 **Also Wendy is a fan-given name to Wy, and Romeo is the name fans gave Seborga. Fans seem to have given Arthur the middle name Ignatius so I'm going to use it at some point.**

 **Side note. I'm done with Peter. And ish gets real** **.**

* * *

 ** _Handy French:_**

les femmes - the women  
prsonnification d'Angleterre - personification of England  
copains - friends  
le magasin - the store  
je rigole avec toi - I joke with you  
sarcasme brittanique - British sarcasm  
lettre - letter  
cul - ass _  
_

* * *

 _Six - Panicked_

It was a warm, October evening. My mother had prepared fish and chips, as it was only the four of us. Peter was ecstatic; this was his favorite meal. Personally, I wasn't panicking too much. They've been watching me (needlessly) closely, ever since my brothers had went back to live with their respective mothers. It only made things more interesting. As soon as I was finished, I would excuse myself, take care of my plate, and pop a couple of Dulcolax and be on my merry way.

Unfortunately, my parents had other plans. I scarfed down my serving and excused myself. "Arthur," my mother forced a smile. "Please stay with us. We do love your company." I snorted in response.

"How was your day, son?" my father carefully asked.

"Could have been worse," I responded thoughtfully. "I could have been mugged, or even failed a test. Luckily for me, neither of those things happened."

"That's," my mother searched for the right words. "Good to hear."

"I convinced Wendy to become a citizen of Sealand!" Peter announced excitedly. "Romeo is thinking about it, but I'm sure he'll say yes!"

"Sealand isn't a real country," I chided Peter.

"Yes it is! You're just a jerk, Arthur!" Peter smirked at me, satisfied with himself.

"Anyway," my father looked down at his near-empty plate and took a deep breath. "Arthur, we wanted to talk to you about your dietary habits." I stiffened.

"What your father means," my mother attempted to clarify, "is that we noticed a change in how you approach mealtimes. You have been eating more than you normally would, and we wanted to hear from you as to why that would be."

I dismissed them, scoffing. "You lot have gone daft. I haven't noticed any noticeable changes in my food consumption."

"You have been taking food up to your room as of late," my mother refuted softly. "We're afraid for you, dear. We don't want to see you hurt."

"I'm absolutely fantastic. I have no idea as to why you feel the need to psychoanalyze me!" I threatened to raise my voice at them.

"We aren't psychoanalyzing you!" My father raised his voice. My mother took his hand lovingly, and he regained composure. "We want to make sure you're healthy."

"I am." I cross my arms indignantly.

"It isn't healthy to take food up to your room!" My dad retorted.

I was silent for a moment. "You lot don't even care about me. Don't pretend to," I whispered incredulously. I stood up and excused myself.

"Arthur!" My mother called out to me weakly. "We do care about you!"

I locked the door to my room, popped two Dulcolax, and began to do jumping jacks.

 _Why did I ever stop doing this? This is absolutely invigorating!_

I had used the restroom and done about two hundred jumping jacks, twenty push-ups, and all of my homework before I passed out onto my bed at around ten. Luckily for me, it was Sunday, and I had school the next day. My alarm rang at seven in the morning promptly, and I felt very awake. I went through my normal routine and set off to school.

My mother had made scones, so I took one out of common courtesy. She smiled exasperatedly, and I left. As soon as I saw my school, I discarded the calorie-filled confections onto the floor unceremoniously. I would

It was still awkward to face Mr. Jones. I still haven't told him or Matthew that I had seen them together, and it was getting painful. I knew they can't be together, but I couldn't deny how the very mention of my teacher made Matthew's face light up. He always spoke so highly of him, and even went on tangents of how great of a teacher he is. It warmed my heart in ways I would never admit out loud.

I was nervous to go to my English class, solely because I knew a response from Francis waited for me. We had written back and forth for about a month now, and I've found him to be a very braggadocious flirt. Half his letters to me consist of him chronicling his many romantic (and perhaps sexual) exploits. I felt very sorry for whoever his soulmate turned out to be.

This letter, I assumed ,would be no different.

 _Oh, Angleterre. You are so sad. You resort to chiding me for my displays d'affection. You simply do not understand that showing les femmes that you are interested simply show your âme sœur how lucky they are. But how can I expect such ignorance from the personnification d'Angleterre?_

 _I digress. I meant to tell you about all of the women that throw themselves at me. It really has become a bother, Angleterre. They will not leave me alone. I cannot have a conversation with my copains without gorgeous young women approaching me and seeking out my attention. Like this one girl at le magasin. She was gorgeous; long, brown hair, and gorgeous blue eyes. She was somewhat flat, but she was nonetheless a work of art. She insisted on seeing me at least once, if you know what I mean. Oh, you likely don't. You simply do not garner the female attention as I do._

 _Oh, that was not fair of me. You really do seem to be a catch. Your âme sœur is a very lucky individual. You're sarcasme britannique makes you stand out from the rest, and you honestly make me laugh. I even tell my friends good things about you. So do not worry; je rigole avec toi in good fun._

 _To conclude this lettre, I would like to ask you more questions. What is it like to have four brothers, none of which you enjoy their company? Are they the horrible ones, or are you just a priss with something up his cul? And if you have pets, are they as prissy as you? I cannot imagine having to deal with two of you. One of you is bad enough._

I didn't read after the third paragraph. My eyes widened, and my heart started racing. I haven't panicked in a while. The way he spoke so dearly to me (and about me) brought up repressed feelings that I would never let see the light, or even form in my mind. For the first time, I was confronted with how I felt about Francis, and I couldn't handle it. I had to leave the room for at least a moment. Logging off of the laptop and closing it, I then fumbled with my backpack to retrieve my planner. Signing it roughly, I raised my hand and asked for permission to use the restroom. Ms. Héderváry nodded sympathetically and continued doing whatever it was she was doing.

Stumbling out of the room proved difficult to me, and I had never felt this faint before; I felt tired.

It was my luck that I had stumbled upon Ivan. He stood right outside my classroom with a malicious smile on his face. "The glitch is alone, da?" He said menacingly.

"W-what?" I stuttered. "I-I am not!"

"Da, you are." He approached me threateningly. "And those that choose to go against their soulmates must be eliminated." I tried to run away, but he slammed me into the lockers. He then punched me in the face repeatedly. I couldn't fight back; I could only scream in pain. I was vaguely aware of the blood pouring out of my nose. I saw black spots every time I blinked.

Ms. Héderváry stormed out of the room. When she saw Ivan assaulting me, she pulled us apart. I face-planted the ground, and I was conscious for a brief moment. I faded into darkness as she attempted to keep me awake.

I was tired. Let me sleep.

I woke up in a foreign bed, as if what had just occurred was a terrible nightmare. I was hooked up to many different tubes, the most noticeable one in my mouth provided sustenance.

A feeding tube.

I panicked; I wanted to rip it off. But, if I did, the doctors would put it back in anyway. I lost. My heart rate increased, and an old male doctor came into the room. "Mr. Kirkland, you're awake!" He observed my heart rate. "Don't worry. You're going to be all right. It seems as though you've been malnourished, and in conjunction with your nasty accident, you were knocked out cold. Tell me, are you doing alright at the moment? A thumbs up or down will suffice."

I gave him a weak, hesitant thumbs down. I then pointed to the blasted feeding tube with the same thumb. He gave me a sympathetic look. "I understand you dislike it, but it's helping you feel better." He didn't understand at all. "I will go get your parents. They're worried sick. You've been out a few days." He stepped out of the room, and my heart sank.

Francis. I never responded to him.

My mother ran into the room. Her face was stained with tears, and she hadn't brushed her hair in a few days. I felt guilty. "Arthur!" She cried, rushing over to take my hand. "I was afraid we lost you. I love you. We love you." did my best to smile for her. To put on a brave face.

Then, my dad came into the door. He had a visible beard and bags under his eyes. He sat next to my mom with a taut smile. "Hello, Arthur." I waved at him. His face hardened.

"Your brothers are here to see you." My mother squeezed my hand. "Oh! And that one Kiku boy has been asking about you. He came by earlier." I gave her a weak thumbs up. They left, and were replaced by my brothers.

Allistor spoke first, weakly. "Glad t' see yer a'right, Artie." I gave another weak thumbs up.

"We were worried about ya," Patrick smiled at me sadly. Dylan came and stood next to me and took my hand silently. Then, he spoke.

"Thought you died. Didn't think I would see ya alive again. Thought we'd be attendin' ya funeral soon."

Peter stood by the door grudgingly. He mustered a forced, "Hello, Arthur. Nice to see you woke up."

I smiled an open smile. Afterall, that's all I could do at the moment.


	7. Seven - Manly

**After a brief hiatus, I am back and ready to finish things! I only have about four chapters left. *tears* I blame my hiatus on RENT and fanfics... On a personal note, I'm basing Arthur's treatment in this chapter on my own experiences in an American mental institution and what I've relearned from research.**

* * *

 ****** _THEREFORE, THIS MAY BE TRIGGERING IF YOU HAVE EVER HAD THOUGHTS ABOUT ED OR SELF HARM. OR, IT MAY HELP. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK, I SUPPOSE. Igirisu-kun isn't going to be hiding his stuff anymore. Making this M for that reason_.*******

* * *

 **For context, in England, they're having an issue with not having enough "beds". That's pretty much saying they don't have enough space for people who need mental help and therefore are sending them off to Glasgow, Scotland, for treatment. There's an article from 2016 about it.**

 **João is the fan name given to Portugal, and Lien for Vietnam.**

 **And, thank you for the reviews, favorites, and follows! 3**

* * *

 _Seven - Manly_

It took nearly three weeks for the doctors to decide I was not on the brink of death, and now I was being shipped off to a different country for my "recovery". Alright, it's Scotland, so I'm at least not leaving the island, just England. But try to tell my poor mother that. She was just as bad the second time around.

I wasn't sure how long they would hold me captive. Last time I was committed, I was there for five months, but I met girls that were kept for as long as a year. But, if I'm here for a year, I won't be able to meet Francis. I don't _want_ to meet him, but it wouldn't be fair to him to be the only person who _doesn't_ get to meet his pen pal. I would simply feel bad if I disappointed him.

The rooms themselves weren't terrible. My room was a sizable bedroom with two white beds with green sheets. Next to the door were two wooden shelving units, and on the adjacent wall was a bathroom with a curtain in place of a door. It was at that moment where I knew I had lost not only all my privacy, but also my humanity.

I was put into a room with a pleasant individual named João. He told me he was there for depression. He was very welcoming, even attempting to give me advice until I informed him that I've been here before. We talked about the prison. For example lost our hard-sole shoes to accommodate for the homicidal. We didn't have doors to our bathrooms because of people like me. (He didn't say this, of course, but that's what he meant.) We even couldn't have sharp pencils, specifically to avoid cases such as one boy he met that tore apart his arm with the sharpened utensil.

My first morning was torture, almost more so than when I was fourteen. The first thing they made me do was stand on a scale in a private room, never letting me see the number. It was particularly infuriating, as I was accustomed to reading the numbers twice a day.

I quickly realized I was the only male in my special group, and that if I was to survive my time here, I would have to befriend the girls. Perhaps the most inviting was a young, lanky blonde, no older than thirteen, named Lilli. She opened up to me immediately, explaining that her Swiss brother brought her here for anorexia a week prior.

I told her I was there for bulimia and self mutilation, as the doctors explained to me, though it was very difficult to verbalize, even to accept. I didn't feel like I was bulimic. I felt like I was dieting, but was forced to parrot whatever the doctors told me, lest I get sent to solitary confinement. Again. She then asked me if I had been committed before. I didn't lie.

There were two other sweet girls; one was another blonde, but she looked to be at a healthy weight, a Belgian girl named Emma. She was also bulimic, and had been there for five months already. The other was a Seychellen brunette that was also at a proportionally healthy weight named Michelle. She was there for purging, and had been in treatment for almost eight months. She was evidently the mother of the group.

There was one girl there that very standoffish, with long blonde hair and bangs, named Natalya. She didn't tell me right away what she was there for - getting her name without her ignoring me was difficult enough as it is.

My first snack in months came to me in the form of a granola bar and a glass of water. They didn't need to tell me that my snack is likely to increase as I spend more time here. I already knew the drill, though it didn't ease the anxiety attack I had. The Asian lady, Lien, smiled at me supportively. I sighed, inhaling the entire granola bar and downing the water. Having realized the repercussions of what I've done, I broke down crying. Lien rubbed my back gently. I slowly regained composure. I was escorted out of the private room, and I rejoined the other girls. Michelle was next.

Since it was my first day, I only had to eat a bowl of cereal with milk, a cup of scrambled eggs, a glass of orange juice, and a cup of water. I knew they wouldn't let me use the restroom following dinner by myself, so I was hesitant at first. Well, if I _could_ use the restroom, anyway. I knew they wanted me to gain weight, and while I've had near-death experiences, I wasn't quite sure how willingly I would go against my routine. It was starting to work. I was starting to lose… Yet, there I was. Because it worked. It failed. I failed. Now I have to suffer the consequences of my failure.

I sat there, staring at my full plate, completely unable to move. Michelle looked over at me sympathetically and said, "You can do this." The other girls looked at me kindly and attempted to encourage me.

Michelle was wrong. I hadn't eaten a "normal" meal in months, to be honest. The food- hot, with a pungent smell of permanent calories- mocked me. It reminded me that my resolve was weak. I was weak. I picked up the fork and hovered it over the eggs. The smell, tempting and trying, almost overpowered the sickening smell of weight gain. I dropped the fork and looked helplessly at Lien, who gave me a sympathetic smile. She walked over to me, and whispered, "If you can't eat, we have another alternative. Though, it may be less pleasant."

"What would that be?" I asked innocently.

"Essentially, a feeding tube that goes from your nose to your stomach." She looked at me, waiting for my answer.

I weighed my options: Gain weight willingly or unwillingly. I broke eye contact with her to look at my plate.

I drank the glass of water, and, embarrassed, told her I preferred the alternative. She empathetically smiled and escorted me out of the intimate eating room and into a room with a chair and many tubes and containers full of liquids. I felt a pit in my nearly-empty stomach; I should have bucked up and ate the eggs.

After an agonizing (yet highly praised) dinner, I was brought into another private room. I assumed I would be telling my story for the thirteenth time that day. But instead, it was a plump, red-haired lady that held my books and folders. My heart sank at the reminder of school work. I had little over three weeks of homework that I had previously neglected.

Francis. My heart broke at the reminder that I had shunned him.

"I have a pen pal," I spoke before they got the chance to say anything. "I haven't had the chance to reply to him. He must be worried sick."

"Luckily for you," the lady handed me my books and a somewhat dull pencil. "We've got ourselves a printer that can send a copy of your letters directly to his school. You write it, and we will scan it for you to get to him. There's a piece of paper."

The man spoke up, " I'll stay here with you, should you need any help." Helping was code for monitoring.

"Thank you." I sat down and wrote my first letter to him in forever.

 _3rd of November, 2017_

 _Hello, France. I'm not sure if you've been briefed on my current situation, though I don't know how you possibly could have been. But don't worry, I'm not dead yet. I simply moved, temporarily, after this son of a bitch punched me in the face. Currently, I'm in Scotland. Don't ask why, frog. I won't tell you why. It's a personal matter._

 _Anyway, I've been absent for so long because I've been in the hospital. No, it's not an excuse because I simply do not like you. Don't get me wrong, I still don't like you. But I that wanker got me good enough to hospitalize me._

 _But now, in Scotland, I don't have access to the internet. Thank god for technology, otherwise this letter would have otherwise taken a month to get to you. Then you'd_ _really_ _be worried._

 _I've forgotten what your last letter said. Regardless, understand this: if you insult my handwriting, I'll be forced to demonstrate_ _worse_ _penmanship. That's handwriting, in case you didn't know._

 _I have questions for you to answers, should you fail to be injured as well. How often does it occur to you that your country is full of rude, insolent wankers? And how does it feel to know that most people would prefer to starve over eating your "food". Snails? Really? Also, have you ever noticed that your country's flag is a half-arsed attempt to avoid a copyright infringement claim from Russia?_

 _Take care, frog._


	8. Eight - Embarrassed

**Heya! I've been thinking of a spinoff with either Antonio or with Matthew. I have no idea! What do you think? Both would be very dark, like this, for different reasons. Would be rated M just because I don't know how dark I would take it.**

 **Aha I've also been busy with potential computer viruses,** _ **Assassination Classroom**_ **, and IRL stuff. So we're back! And this is shorter than normal, but oh well.**

 **I also realized that Francis originally thought Matthew went to Canada, and that's perfect because he genuinely does not keep track of his own little brother.**

* * *

 **Side note: THERE ISN'T ENOUGH GOOD TSUNDERE!ENGLAND FICS! And since Igirisu-kun is NOT developing a crush on Furansu-kun, things will work out well!**

* * *

 _ **Handy French:**_

Lundi, treizième novembre - Wednesday, thirteenth (of) November

une grande calligraphe - good calligraphy

escargot - snail

Espagne - Spain

Votre racisme a été réfuté - your racism has been refuted

Sacré-Cœur Basilica - Sacred Heart Basilica (cathedral in France)

pittoresque - picturesque

belle britannique - British beauty

fouetté - whipped (in dance, a form of turning)

* * *

 _Eight - Embarrassed_

That following Monday, my social worker, Ainsley, gave me another piece of paper with loopy words written in potentially black. The words, in perfect, enviable cursive, were no doubt from Francis. But why would he physically write to me? He has access to an actual computer!

 _Lundi, treizième novembre_

 _Bonjour, Angleterre. Long time no write. I will admit, I was a bit worried about you,but now I understand why you were absent. I apologize for your misfortune. I know I am not, but I do at least feel slightly responsible regardless._

 _So, in the true spirit of the pen pals, I will likewise write to you with une grande calligraphe. That's handwriting, in case you didn't know._

 _First, I will answer your (rude) questions, as I have failed to be assaulted. To address your first question, it has never occurred to me that my people are rude, as they are not. In my experience, it was always the British that were rude. Your people will simply walk away, knowing that a poor tourist is lost._

 _Secondly, you seem to be fascinated with escargot. I have to correct you, Angleterre, as you seem to lack this information. You see, the art of escargot originated in Espagne, according to my dear friend Toni. Also, I have lived in France for eighteen years, and I have never eaten a snail in my life. Votre racisme a été réfuté. Also understand that people come from all over the world to enjoy French cuisine. I cannot say the same of the British._

 _However, I will give you credit where it is due. I see you researched your flag history, and for that, I commend you. However, if you would like to play the copyright game, I accept. But be warned: a simple flag is easier changed than an entire language._

 _I have two questions for you, and you must be honest. Firstly, I must ask: how old must you be to be allowed to wear your sacred Bowler hat? Secondly, Angleterre, are you alright?_

That was it. He somehow managed to not only make me feel better, but also worse. I imagine him to be a crude, lanky man with long hair that he flips as he winks at you. I… I won't fall for his charisma! Gripping the blunt pencil angrily, I replied.

 _14th November 2017_

 _You're simply incorrigible, France. Do you really believe all British men wear such eccentric hats? If you had half a brain cell, you would know that the Bowler hat hasn't been fashionable in years! It's as if living in the "Fashion Capital of the World" has done nothing for you._

 _However, I would be lying if I didn't admit that your second question didn't startle me. If we're being completely honest, I've been worse off, I think. I'm by no means great, but at the same time, I don't think I'm at my worse. I was perhaps at my worse when I was thirteen. But I'm only telling you because you bothered to ask! I don't care if you care or not, frog!_

 _Most of your letter to me is very contentious. You knew very well that what you said would aggravate me, but at this time, I am trying to keep my composure. Understand that you did_ _not_ _win! I'm simply ignoring it for my own sanity._

 _Anyway, Scotland is a beautiful country. From what I've seen thus far, it seems to be a country I could stand living in. The castle-like architecture and bridges almost remind me of home. The best part of Glasgow? I have near-constant access to a piano! I hadn't played since I was thirteen, but I'm surprised I remember as much as I do. So while I can't really play soccer at the moment, I can at least do something else that I love._

 _I feel compelled to ask. Which countries have you visited, France, other than the glorious country of England? Detail your exploits if you've wreaked havoc upon an unfortunate city._

I would never admit it out loud, but I loved writing to France- I mean, Francis. Ainsley noticed a difference: I was slightly agitated at all points of the day except when I wrote to him. To prevent any misunderstanding, I clarified that he was merely a break from my mundane, depressing existence. Bickering with a frog provided sufficient distraction from my current imprisoned state. Ainsley, rightfully, was not amused.

We all decided that he was a positive influence on me, and that my goal should be to get better in order to meet him as scheduled. I had almost forgotten about meeting him in July. Remembering the sad fact made my stomach drop. I would have to prove that I could eat on my own (and keep it down) if I wanted to see him.

They were kind enough to let me keep his letters in my folder. For motivation, I insisted. My favorite letter was one I received in January. Though, I would never admit that it was my favorite. Because it isn't.

 _Mercredi, dix-septième janvier_

 _Remember when you asked me what my favorite place to visit in Paris was, Angleterre? I told you it was the Eiffel Tower. But now, after visiting the Sacré-Cœur Basilica for the first time in years, I've changed my mind. The cathedral is pittoresque; so beautiful that I now plan to share my first kiss with my âme sœur underneath it. I would prefer it to be at night, but if not, I will not mind._

 _I am expected to meet mine in July, and oddly enough, around the time your school is to visit us. I must get out all of my British jokes, as I am likely to be blessed with a belle britannique. If all goes well, I will be blessed with a blonde with hopefully as short of a temper as yours._

 _I realized that I have never directly asked about your âme sœur. So, I must ask. When are you expected to meet them? Soon? In five years? If soon, then is your âme sœur- dare I say? - français?_

 _Another question. You have mentioned in the past that you have learned the piano. I must ask if you know any of the classics? Can you play Brahms's Waltz? If you can, I would love to one day here you play. I love to stretch to that song._

 _Oh! Angleterre! I forgot to mention how my ballet company is going to be performing Romeo and Juliet right before your school visits. Sadly, my dear ami, Antonio, was casted as Romeo, and I as Mercutio. I love him - I do - but he cannot fouetté to save his life._

 _A few questions for you, if you will. How packed is it in London, with everyone living there? Also, how is the Queen? I hear she is getting up there in years. I imagine you, along with other Englishmen, have tea with her frequently. And finally, is it true that you all have untamable eyebrows?_

 _18th January 2018_

 _I won't lie. Your letter rendered me speechless for a moment. I'm actually proud to say that I am, actually, learning Brahms's Waltz, but it isn't like I'm learning for you. I actually started learning it a few days ago._

 _Anyway, you asked me a few questions about my soulmate. Truthfully? I'm not sure about anything about her. I would, though, prefer her to have shoulder-length hair and have class. Doubt you would know a think about class. Also, I am, actually, supposed to meet her in France. Though I am certain she's simply a tourist trying to navigate the land of the frogs._

 _I will admit, I am glad for you that you're able to achieve so much as a dancer. But don't expect to get compliments often! I can just appreciate talent when I see it._

 _Anyway, you asked about London. I will have you know that I live in Manchester, so no, not everyone lives in London. There's also Liverpool._

 _You also asked about the Queen. No, I'm no where near worthy of her majesty's presence, much live most other Englishmen. Hell, not even the Duchess of Cambridge is worthy of her majesty's presence alone!_

 _You lastly poke fun at Englishmen's eyebrows. I will have you know that most people have well-tamed eyebrows here. I don't know where you got that idea from, you bloody cretin._

 _Just two questions. Why are you obsessed with my soulmate? Most people would consider that creepy. Additionally, what do you want from me?_


	9. Nine - Confused

**Hi… It's been a year since I last updated this. I didn't think I would return to it, but since I am once again in love with soulmate spirals, I will finish it as best as I can (I just started college).**

 **I went back and looked at what I had so far, and I now feel like I need to make sure Iggy uses British slang and vocabulary more. As an American, I sometimes forget that how I say something may not be how someone in England would say it.**

 **With all that being said, enjoy! :)**

* * *

 _Nine- Confused_

 _ **Handy French:**_

 _Lundi, vingt-deuxième janvier = Monday, 22nd of January_

 _pairs = peers_

 _enfin = anyway_

 _âme sœur = soulmate_

 _l'amour des amoureux croisés = the love of star-crossed lovers_

 _Lundi, vingt-deuxième janvier_

 _I am very pleased to hear that Brahm's work is still appreciated. I sincerely believe your motivation for learning the Waltz to be independent from me. Though it does not keep me from being elated nonetheless. Most of my pairs prefer mind-numbing drabble over mentally-stimulating masterpieces._

 _Enfin, I find your response to my question intriguing. You will one day be the perfect husband to your âme sœur. I believe your future wife to be a lucky woman._

 _I do not have much time, as I am practicing for my role with whatever free time I find. I hope you still find this to be an adequate response, though. I do not have much that I would like to ask you, so I will leave you to ponder this: is it morally acceptable to impose man-made laws on the l'amour des amoureux croisés? In other words, should society prohibit love deemed unethical or impossible, simply because it is uncommon?_

The fluorescent lights flickered softly in the claustrophobic office. The walls were bricked in white, and the sleek oak table hosted a plethora of scribbled notes both praising my successes and noting my inadequacies. Ainsley, my social worker, pursed her eyebrows together to nonverbally communicate her concerns.

"Arthur, we are concerned that you will be unable to be released on time." She looked me in my eyes.

My heart sank. "What do you mean? I'm making progress!" I attempted to shout, but my throat was sore.

"You were," she conceded, "but the last two days, you've forced yourself to vomit. I understand-"

"You would understand if you weren't dead from the neck up." I snapped, leaning back in my black chair and crossed my arms.

"Arthur, we need to address this immediately. Your stomach acids could potentially destroy your throat."

My patience wearing thin, I shouted, "I don't care if you need to address this, you bloody muppet!" I instantly regretted it, so I held my throat in defeat.

Taking a patient breath, Ainsley continued. "Taking you back to the hospital could potentially set you back a month. You were originally set to be discharged just in time to go to France." Her words lingered for a moment, which forced me to recognize the severity of this situation.

"I…" I struggled to verbalize the thoughts racing in my mind. At the beginning of the school year, I would have done anything to get out of the trip. Now, however, was a different story. Swallowing my pride, I quietly asked, "What do I need to do?"

The following Tuesday was filled with anxiety about eating. Ainsley wanted me to eat without "relapsing", and after every meal, I cried. The other girls bucked up complacently, seemingly playing by the rules so that they may be discharged soon, and the sooner they get discharged, the sooner they may return to old habits. That cannot be me if I am to be released and go to France.

That night, instead of wallowing in my sorrow, I decided to reply to Francis and pour my heart out.

 _Tuesday, 23rd of January_

 _Truthfully, this is a topic I have been thinking about since the beginning of the school year, and before that, when I met my friend. His soulmate is a man, and while my father has prejudices against such a relationship, I, myself, believe that there are no "glitches" or "choices" being made. I see the way they look at each other. Non-fated couples could never share as strong of a bond as that._

 _The reason why I am currently in Scotland, and not in England, is because of such a prejudice. (Though,I likely would have been sent to Scotland at some point anyway, and it was only a matter of time.) A boy had threatened my friends, and I was one to stand up to the abuser. A while later, he believed me to be a "glitch" as well, and smashed my face against a locker._

 _Even my own brothers believe I am. I won't lie, it has done a number on my ego. I'm now hypersensitive with my interactions with other men and I will rarely shake hands with them. Though, I have had an unworldly experience, which I believe to be conditioning on my brothers' ends. He fascinated me, and I was infatuated with him, despite the fact that he already has a soulmate. I had never felt such a way towards anyone, male or female. While I am set to meet my soulmate in July, I no longer have any idea as to what to expect. Though, I have a sinking feeling that my brothers were on to something._

 _In closing, I believe it is morally unjust to discriminate against that which was intended by fate. I have personally seen the effects this discrimination has on people, and it isn't fair. What do you think, France?_

My fingers cramped after I finished the question mark. I stretched out my hand and took a deep breath. Upon realizing that it was midnight, I shuffled into bed quickly and tried my best to sleep. My efforts were in vain; my mind raced. I kept returning to the thought that I had to muster up the courage to eat tomorrow, and the day after that, and so on, if I ever wanted to be discharged, and potentially even meet Francis.

But why would I want to see Francis? He wouldn't care who I was; he likely doesn't even care about me at all. So why would care about him? My heart stopped at that realization. And why would I pour my heart out to someone who wouldn't care if I was dead? I should rewrite the letter to him, but my body, though unwilling to let me sleep, was too exhausted to move.

So I laid there and softly cried to myself for what felt like hours until I was finally too exhausted to stay awake.

The next morning, I woke up early, therefore absolutely knackered. Everyone had noticed, even Natalya, who previously hadn't given me a second thought. After breakfast, which I managed to keep down solely because of my desire to meet Francis, who may or may not even have any interest in meeting me, I had an impromptu meeting with Ainsley.

She must have noted my melancholy.

"Are you doing alright, Arthur?" She asked me genuinely and sincerely.

"I had a rough night last night," I hung my head down. "I wrote to Francis, and I accidentally uncovered undesirable though persistent feelings."

"Would you like to talk about it?" Ainsley lifted a sleek black pen to a blank paper.

"Well…" I started, and ended up pouring my heart out for the second time in less than twelve hours.


End file.
